


That Was Then, This Is Now

by gwenweybourne



Series: Sunburn [3]
Category: The Monkees, The Monkees (Band), The Monkees (TV)
Genre: 1980s, Anal Sex, Davy is a little shit, M/M, Musician rps, Oral Sex, Rimming, Schmoop, Shower Sex, Smut, a hint of angst, middle-aged Monkees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-13 00:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20573093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenweybourne/pseuds/gwenweybourne
Summary: On September 7, 1986, Mike Nesmith arrives at the Greek Theater to rehearse for his first appearance as one of The Monkees for the first time in nearly twenty years. He's nervous but excited. There will be old memories, old grudges, old joys, old pain, and his old(er) love, Micky. Before the night is out, the two former bandmates and lovers will reunite in every way that matters.





	1. The Show

**Author's Note:**

> I really thought this series was done, but I fell into a rabbit hole of '80s Monkees YouTube footage and re-watched the famous MTV post-show interview where Mike kissed Micky on camera and Dolenzsmith shippers everywhere cried for joy. And here we are.
> 
> This is fiction written in the cracks of actual events. The concert was real and what I describe on stage is real -- the rest of it is fakeity-faaaaaaake fiction. I don't own The Monkees or know them or make any money off this.

_September 7, 1986_

_Los Angeles_

Mike Nesmith felt inexplicably nervous as he approached the stage door at the Greek Theater. Well, it really wasn’t that inexplicable when he considered the reality of it. He was going in to rehearse with three people he hadn’t performed with in nearly twenty years. Micky, Peter, and Davy were waiting on him inside. Though, given what Micky had been telling him about Davy’s attitude regarding Mike’s “surprise” appearance at the Monkees’ final show of a triumphant three-night stand at the Greek Theater in Los Angeles, he reckoned Davy would be fashionably late to make a point.

Mike was careful to arrive ten minutes early to make a point. He wasn’t trying to steal any thunder from his former bandmates, who had done a great deal of legwork in reforming and assembling a top-notch show — one they had performed many times already. Mike had attended an earlier performance in disguise and had been fairly blown away. It was a Monkees show as it always should have been — a slick, choreographed performance with state-of-the art audiovisuals, costume changes, and scripted banter. And a backing band to fill in the gaps so the guys could focus on the performance/entertainment aspect. And no one was giving them shit for using additional musicians anymore. After all, they’d been a TV cast. This was the closest thing to the melding of a live concert and live episode performance as could be managed. Because of the tight scripting of the show, Mike’s appearance would happen during a two-song encore — “Listen to the Band” and “Pleasant Valley Sunday” — and he was more than fine with that. He hadn’t performed live in a number of years now and would have passed on Micky’s invitation had they not been able to give him any rehearsal time at all.

Micky. After so many years, it still came down to Micky. Micky Dolenz, whom Mike quietly considered a great love of his life. It was Micky who had taken Mike’s breath away on stage. Micky, finally unshackled from the drum kit, had shone as a proper frontman (though Davy would bristle to hear _that_). Shone like the damn sun. After all these years. Forty-one years old and he could still set a stage on fire with his huge presence. He still thought of Micky in terms of heat and light. He just emitted warmth and made everyone around him blossom.

Mike looked forward to basking in some of that warmth. As much as he could get, anyway. He and Mick hadn’t been in the same room together in many years, though they had kept in touch for the most part. As much as their increasingly busy schedules allowed. Even managed to work together via overseas connections when Mike’s failed _Television Parts_ comedy sketch show was trying to get off the ground and Micky directed a few segments, trying to break the British phenomenon _Spitting Image_ in the U.S. But busy was good. They had not been busy at all the last time they’d spent time together. After Mike’s personal and professional breakdown in the early seventies, he’d sought refuge with Micky and thankfully his former bandmate and lover had taken him in. Cared for him and sheltered him. Fed him and laughed with him. Talked to him and made love to him. For weeks. Until Mike felt strong enough to go back out into the world and start over again. It had taken him a long time and a tragic event to build this new life. 

The untimely death of his mother, Bette (fifty-six years old, good lord, he was closing in on forty-four and he hoped he had more time ahead of him than she’d had, bless her soul), and a generous bequest of a portion of her great fortune, had given Mike the capital he needed to grow his company, Pacific Arts, into a viable and profitable business at long last. He knew he was very fortunate, and he worked very hard to prove himself worthy of the gift. He didn’t want anyone thinking that he was coasting on free money and incapable of sustaining the momentum. At least, he didn’t want to think that of himself. He was trying very hard to stop thinking of himself as an imposter/fraud and to therefore stop self-sabotaging any endeavor he pursued. That was something he’d come to realize when he was living with Micky. And something Micky had said to him that gave him the courage to move forward. _Find a different stream so you don’t have swim so hard to get where you want to go._

First, he’d worked on improving his education so he didn’t feel like so much of a hillbilly bumpkin when dealing with high-powered entertainment types. He’d always felt so out of his depth during the Monkee days and the early, hard years after. It had fed his insecurity and belief that he didn’t belong, and any success he found was fraudulent, and therefore had to be destroyed on his own terms before it fell apart outside of his control. And then he’d got to work, alongside his second wife, Kathryn, building something for himself. Something he could be proud of. Something he hoped Bette would have been proud of had she been around to see it. He worked harder than he’d ever worked before. And once things started moving forward, it became his life and obsession. And once he’d started earning some professional respect in the area of technology and media, he could finally relax enough to stop getting his hackles up every time someone mentioned the damn Monkees. Because it wasn’t all he was, and he finally had the proof. And a fucking Grammy award with his name on it. And _only_ his name. Mike had needed an awful lot in order to get to this point. He needed more than most to feel even somewhat comfortable in his own skin and he knew it. At least he could acknowledge that now. It was just how he was. He hoped he’d managed to mellow a little bit compared to the frustrated, insecure, angry young man he’d been twenty years ago.

Also, finally, enough time had finally passed for the Monkees to become a warm, nostalgic thing rather than an embarrassment. A flash in the pan. An experiment gone horribly wrong. The young children who’d been their first wave of fans had grown up and now their children were becoming fans of the show due to MTV. Time really could heal all wounds.

It was a whole other world and Mike had jumped in with both feet. Video technology was his bread and butter and MTV had started off as his brainchild, but ultimately it wasn’t something he’d wanted to run. Not if he couldn’t have full control over it. Yep, that was still his bugbear. A control freak to the bitter end. It was a blessing and a curse. But he hoped now that it wasn’t going to be his undoing the way it had been in the past.

To prove this to himself, he accepted when Micky invited him to appear at this one show. He had wanted to do the full original run of five to ten shows, but then it ballooned into a gruelling, months-long tour and he just couldn’t afford that kind of time. Not now. Not when things were finally going pretty well.

And now, here he was … heading back into the fray. He was looking forward to seeing his old friends. He still called them friends, though their relationships had been off and on and fractured and reformed over the years. But in the end, it was the four of them who made up this strange beast called the Monkees. At the very least it made for a very unusual fraternity.

Guitar case in hand, he took a deep breath and opened the door that led into the future of his past.

He was greeted by a high-pitched scream imitating that of a teenage girl. “OH MY GAWD, IT’S MIKE NESMITH! MIIIIIKE, OMIGOD, HE’S SO CUTE!” And then Mike had just enough time to put down his case before he was hit by the full force of Micky Dolenz in full riff, who tackled him in a hug. Mike laughed, wrapping his arms around Micky and holding him tightly. Maybe a little too tightly, but no one would blame him after all these years. Micky’s relocation to England and reinvention as a director and producer had made Mike very happy and very proud. Glad to see Micky find his “stream” as well after so much struggle. But it also meant they never got to see each other.

Which maybe had been for the best because now Mike was flooded with sense memories of Micky’s scent and warmth and it was all he could do not to kiss him full on the mouth. Instead he settled for cradling Micky’s beaming face between his hands and kissing him firmly on the forehead. “How the hell are ya, Mick? So good to see you.”

“I wasn’t going to believe it until I saw you,” Micky said, making no move to release Mike or move his face out of Mike’s hands. “Was fully waiting for you to flake out.”

“Oh, I still could!” Mike smirked, squeezing Micky close one more, then reluctantly releasing him, stroking a thumb over his cheek as he did so. “Still a few hours until showtime, right?”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” said Peter Tork, coming up to greet him. Mike smiled and tugged Peter into a hug as well. Of all of them, Peter was the one who seemed to have shrunk slightly with middle age instead of expanding. There was a weary sadness that lay underneath his smile and the warmth of his caramel-colored eyes. Mike had heard, through Micky and through the usual grapevine, something of the hardships Peter had suffered in the post-Monkees years. The same mix of industry disdain, money problems, substance abuse. And Peter had also ended up in prison for a short time on a trumped-up possession charge. (Sweet, trusting, hippie-dippie Peter in prison — Mike shuddered to think what he might have lived through there.) The 1960s had really let Peter Tork down the worst. The promise of a shining social revolution crumbling into decadent excess in the 1970s and the glorification of consumer capitalism in the decade they lived in now.

But Mike was glad Peter had lived to tell the tale and was smart enough to hold on to this bandwagon with both hands and hopefully claw back some financial security. And wouldn’t let himself be bled dry by the kind of leeches who had preyed upon him twenty years earlier.

Of course, he could express none of that to Peter. They’d never had that kind of relationship and never would, and anyway, Peter would read it as pity or condescension (the former might be true, but never the latter — Mike had seen his own share of hard times, as well), and it would infuriate him. He knew Peter was a little bitter over his lost fortune and was envious of Mike’s windfall and relative security (hell, if their positions had been reversed Mike would have been seething with bitter envy). He settled for also holding Peter’s face in his hands for a moment to get a good look at him. “You look great, man. However did you manage to keep your girlish figure?”

Peter smirked. “Dirty living and starvation will do it every time.”

Fucking Peter. Mike had set himself right up for that one.

Mike smiled and patted Peter affectionately on the cheek. “Still a smart-ass. It’s comforting.”

There was a flash of something fierce in Peter’s eyes for a moment, but then they softened, and he relaxed a fraction, clearly deciding not to get off on the wrong foot. “There are still some things that can be depended upon in this world, Michael,” he said serenely.

Mike released him and went back for his guitar. “Any word on Mr. Jones?”

Micky snorted. “Oh, I’m sure he’s been waiting out in his car to make sure you arrive first before he makes his entrance.”

“Micky,” Peter tutted.

“Oh, come on, I’m kidding around. Our little Napoleon is just grown up, is all.”

“Don’t listen to him, Mike,” said Peter, somewhat anxiously.

“It’s all right man,” Mike said soothingly, opening his guitar case and lifting out his instrument. “Just happy to be here with you guys. Glad you could make the time for this. I really need it. Point me to where I should plug in, willya? And maybe you wanna introduce me to the guys in your band? Hey, fellas!”

* * *

A few minutes later the door opened and Davy strutted inside with his entourage. “All right, then?” Davy said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get this done. ’Ello, Mike. Nice of you to join us.” Davy was brusque and businesslike, not even offering a handshake, let alone a hug. Mike glanced at Micky, who rolled his eyes and shrugged.

Mike still couldn’t get over Davy’s new “look.” It was … something else. If Peter Tork’s face held sadness, Davy Jones’s face had taken on a kind of … hardness. And a less concealed bitterness. Like Peter, he was angry about money and having been cheated by unscrupulous business associates. Unlike Peter, he didn’t have the patina of philosophical and spiritual insight to soften it. Davy was bitter about the solo singing career that had never really taken off the way it was supposed to. Business deals gone sour. Davy Jones had been promised a lot of things by a lot of people and few of them had truly come to fruition. And he was pissed off. Out of all of the Monkees, Davy had been the most revered, coddled, and idolized, and it had been a long way for him to fall.

It registered in the deep, hard lines in Davy’s formerly flawless face — he was still an extraordinarily handsome man and he’d finally grown out of his baby-faced period. But his pale skin was tanned a deep, unnatural bronze — he was the color of a baseball mitt. And his formerly shiny cap of silky brown hair had been teased and highlighted and cut into a trendy “mullet” style haircut that Mike was more accustomed to seeing on teenagers than a forty-year-old man. It was fairly obvious that Davy was doing his best to turn back the clock and do the pop idol thing right this time. Whatever “right” actually meant. The one thing Mike knew for sure to do was to not comment on it. Or light up a spliff anywhere near Davy’s hair.

There was a lot of ego and insecurity in the room. That wasn’t at all new for the Monkees, but Mike took a breath and reminded himself why he was here. And why his former bandmates might be feeling a little defensive around him. The guy who didn’t need the money. The one who could afford to say no. The one with too much going on to say yes. It definitely wasn’t Mike’s usual style, but for this one night he knew he needed to take a back seat and just do what he was told. No notes, no suggestions. Just play nice. Make it a memorable experience for all the right reasons. No pissing contests.

And so he did what he was told. He stood where he was told to stand. He took direction and played and sang as capably as he was able to. The backing band was tight, and it helped Mike feel more confident that he wouldn’t make an ass of himself on stage. They were a welcome safety net.

And as the songs began to firm up and coalesce, and the reality of what the reunion was really going to look like on stage began to take shape, the energy in the room began to shift. Davy began to relax, and Mike was pleased when the man threw him one of his trademark happy grins for the first time — nothing contrived about it. When Davy smiled like that, it was like all the years melted away and once again he was the little cheeky young Mancunian kid that Mike had known and often loved.

By the time they were practicing the Monkee walk (and it was a regular part of the show, so the other three had mastered it once again and therefore took great glee at his expense as he stumbled and made mistakes, sometimes nearly taking all four of them down), they were all in stitches. Finally Mike found the groove again, and with Micky’s and Davy’s arms firmly wrapped around his waist, he indulged in a comfortable old feeling of being part of a gang. For better or for worse, they’d lived through something extraordinary together. And there was a bond there. And then Davy finally pulled Mike into a hug and Mike squeezed him back, kissing his cheek and murmuring, “Our Manchester Cowboy.”

“Yeah, all right, you big ponce. I’m chuffed to see you, too. FINALLY.”

Mike was feeling sentimental and generous enough to let Davy have the last word on that.

* * *

They had a light supper together before final sound check. Mike all too aware of Micky’s knee against his under the table. They kept stealing glances at one another like flirty teenagers. Surely they were too old for this nonsense? Naw, not when it warmed Mike inside and he felt swell after swell of happiness to be near Micky again. The sun to his moon. Mike stayed mostly quiet as Davy dominated the dinner conversation with talk about the tour. Even when Micky and Peter tried to introduce different subjects, Davy inevitably brought it back to the one subject that Mike was not included in. Mike just smiled and nodded. The Brit had softened toward him, but not completely. It was fine. Mike would probably feel the same if their positions were reversed. But thank god they weren’t. Would anyone really want to go see a Monkees show with no Davy Jones? Surely not.

And then it was time to get changed into their stage outfits and Mike wished three broken legs upon his bandmates and took a position on the side of the stage to watch the show. People kept trying to talk to him and he politely shooed them away. “After the show, after,” he said again and again, starting to lose his cool a bit until David finally noticed and assigned a security guard to run interference.

He couldn’t take his eyes off Micky and Micky knew it. He seemed to be laying it on a little extra thick and Mike ate it up. He worked the crowd like the veteran he was, singing into the rafters, shaking his hips and ass like a man half his age, but he still looked fucking great doing it. Mike had to stop himself a few times from becoming preoccupied with what he was going to do with those hips and ass after the show. He and Micky hadn’t even talked about anything like that, but the wives and girlfriends would go home at the end of the night and the band had hotel rooms. He’d booked a different hotel than the rest of them on purpose. He reckoned it could be read as a power move, but it was more to put a little distance between them if he got Micky back to his room after the party.

_If_. _When_, more like. Mike watched his former lover gyrate on stage and throw his head back to hit a hard, high note and it reminded Mike of the times he’d made Micky come so hard that he would throw his head back in the same way and his cries would almost sound like song. Yep … there was no way he wasn’t gettin’ some of that later tonight. And what Mike wanted, Mike got. Especially when it came to Micky.

* * *

Before Mike knew it, Micky was singing “I’m a Believer” and the band took their bows and came offstage. They mopped their faces with towels and Micky grinned at Mike. “You ready, Mikey?”

Mike chuckled. “No, not even a little bit. I’m scared as hell, man.”

Micky stepped closer to him. “I’d give you a hug, but I’m soaked through and I’ll mess up your cool threads. You know you got this, right? It’s gonna be great. They —” he angled his chin out to the crowd, who were screaming for an encore “— are gonna lose their ever-lovin’ _shit _when they see you. Tear the roof off. I can’t wait!” He bit his lip and jumped up and down gleefully, flying high on the unique cocktail of adrenaline and dopamine that live performance sparked in the brain. Mike couldn’t wait to get a hit of his own.

And then it was time. Micky, Peter, and Davy went out first and then came Mike’s cue and he took a deep breath and stepped out on the stage. The decibel level of the audience must have doubled in the span of a second. It had been a long time since Mike had been on stage. Even longer since he’d received this particular kind of sonic-boom welcome. He held out his arms in a “Well, here I am” kind of gesture, then held his hands at his waist and just tried to soak it all in and look humble about it. Micky crept up to him and touched him quickly, pretending to check if Mike was actually real. Mike laughed and then he was pulled into a group hug, and he wondered if Micky and Peter could feel him tremoring just slightly. But the adrenaline was kicking in and he was hit by the wave of love and adoration as they stood in a row, holding hands thrust triumphantly in the air. And he remembered what it was once like. Sometimes it was better than sex. And he hadn’t appreciated it enough the first time. The high price of his privacy and sanity had been too much.

And then he had his guitar and fumbled with the microphone for a terrifying second, but the solid backing of the band comforted him, and he slipped into the song like a pair of warm slippers. It felt good to play. It felt good to sing.

And then it was “Pleasant Valley Sunday” and Micky was incandescent by this point. Mike could barely take his eyes off him as he sang so powerfully, nearly rocketing off the stage with his fervent energy. Sometimes Micky turned to him and they just grinned at each other in wonderment. It was magic. Pure magic that he never thought he would experience again in quite this form. He closed his eyes as he played the final chords and tried to soak it all in. He knew he’d made the right decision in abstaining from the tour, but for a moment, just a moment, he let himself feel a tug of regret and a pang of envy that the guys would get to do this tomorrow and the day after and the day after that and collect all that love and energy that had him on cloud nine.

But then, a stark reminder of what the reality often was. As they walked the length of the stage to acknowledge the audience, Davy, fed up with Mike lingering a little too long to shake hands of the ecstatic fans who were yelling his name, pointed at the opposite stage exit, yelling, “Let’s go!” And then his hand was on Mike’s back, in a seemingly friendly gesture that turned into a little shove, causing Mike to stumble for a beat. Mike glanced back at him for a moment, shoving his hands his pockets, thinking, _Oh, that little shit. I won’t miss that at all_.

One more turn down the stage as they Monkee-walked their way off the stage and into music history. Mike didn’t stumble or fall. Micky wouldn’t let him.


	2. The After-Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Micky and Mike are still dancing around each other, drawing closer with each turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit of a tease -- I apologize, but I didn't like having just one chapter flapping in the breeze and the next (very smutty) chapter still needs work. But a little flirtation/anticipation is good, right?
> 
> I had fun actually writing out/around the action of the interview Mike gave to MTV after the show -- which was eventually and amusingly crashed by Micky. If you're reading this fic, you've likely already seen it a million times, but here it is anyway. If you watch it closely, you can literally see the moment where Mike's eyes and face light up when he spots Micky (around 3:08 -- what, no, I didn't watch this video SO MANY TIMES to be able to write the scene. Nawww ... cough). https://youtu.be/Al7_Xiuhw18

After failing to trick him into making some kind of concrete statement about his future involvement with the reformed Monkees, the MTV interviewer’s questions became increasingly inane and Mike just wanted it to be over so he could get back to his friends and the party. Back to Micky, specifically, whom he spied just behind the journalist. In that moment, Micky caught Mike’s eye over the woman’s shoulder and he started making faces — the kinds of faces guaranteed to crack Mike up. He made a half-hearted attempt to maintain a neutral expression, but his face split into a huge smile, his eyes crinkling with mirth. And then Micky drew closer, standing right next to the interviewer, but still off-camera. Mike gave up trying to pay attention and practically giggled at Micky, the two of them twinkling at each other.

“Hi, Micky,” the journalist said, acknowledging him, but somewhat frustrated. Then, to Mike, “Can you answer that question?”

“I didn’t even hear the question,” he chuckled, then full-out laughed, not even really caring about being professional anymore. Not with Micky grinning at him like the cat who got the cream. “Because of what Micky was doing.”

The journalist repeated some overly broad question about musical highlights of 1986 and good lord, what did this have to do with anything? But he attempted to pull his focus back and began rattling off some hits of the year that had videos he dug. And then Micky materialized by his side, his face positioned close at a ninety-degree angle to Mike’s shoulder, grinning comically at him, and he had to turn away before he cracked up again.

Micky finally turned to face the interviewer and it was like they were a tag team, and it was Micky’s turn up, thank god. Micky held a cocktail in one hand and was loose and happy after a triumphant performance. Mike was happy to watch him turn on the charm as the interviewer asked him questions about Mike’s cameo on stage. Micky, as always, was kind and generous, careful to drive home the point that Mike wasn’t participating in the tour because he didn’t want to ... but because he was simply unable to. Helping to rewrite the “Mike Nesmith is ashamed of the Monkees” narrative. Mike knew it wasn’t an altogether altruistic move on Micky’s part. Micky was a shrewd businessman now and knew well that the Monkees’ popular resurgence and the public interest in the tour depended on the strength of this narrative. That they were all still great buddies and Mike wished them well even if he couldn’t be there with them. There was that. But it wasn’t a lie or a spin — it was true. Maybe he wasn’t very close with Davy or Peter, but he certainly wished them all well and wanted them to succeed in this comeback effort, for however long it lasted. _Get while the gettin’s good, fellas. It’s Madonna’s and Michael Jackson’s world now._

And then Micky was smiling warmly and telling the journalist how happy he was to be on stage with Mike that night. “It was an incredible thrill. An incredible thrill.” Mike knew Micky was being sincere, and he felt a sudden rush of emotion, pressing his lips together in an attempt to contain himself, and then, without thinking, he slipped his arm around Micky’s shoulders and murmured, “Yeah, it was, wasn’t it? For me, too,” and kissed him tenderly on his cheekbone. Like he had a hundred times before, though never in public, and often quite naked. Definitely not for MTV. He surprised himself in doing it, but Micky just grinned happily and as Mike went to pull away, Micky slipped his arm around Mike’s waist and held him, keeping him close. So Mike curled his arm back around Micky, squeezing his shoulder, and they finished the interview together, holding each other that way. Until Micky dropped a “Bluhdum!” and it was pure muscle memory as he and Micky automatically and simultaneously droned, “Here we commmmme …”

_How the fuck do I still know how to just do that without thinking? And I just kissed Micky on camera. We were holding each other on camera._

The thought didn’t alarm him — he knew that their affection would be read as simply that between two old friends celebrating a wonderful and emotional reunion. But privately, it was … an incredible thrill. And then he felt Micky’s hand brush over his ass and Mike smirked as they turned to each other, stepping away, but staying close as the camera moved off.

“You just kissed me on national television. Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in the sixties anymore.” Micky smirked and sipped his drink. He’d made a joke, but there was nothing joking about his tone.

Mike smiled and cradled the back of Micky’s neck in the palm of his hand — another intimate gesture Micky knew well, but to all gathered it would again appear nothing more than two old friends sharing a moment. He longed to pull Micky away somewhere more private to kiss him properly, but the party was jam-packed and he couldn’t think of a place that would be even remotely safe.

“I wanna kiss you more,” Mike said in a very low tone. “But in ways and places that still ain’t proper for television.”

Micky’s eyes twinkled. “Unless you buy the premium cable package. And I was hoping you’d say that, cowboy.”

Mike smirked. “You almost sound surprised.”

Micky shrugged, his flirtatious mask dropping for just a moment to reveal a slightly more vulnerable expression. That face. Mike hadn’t seen that face in a long time.

He let his expression soften as well. “Micky,” he murmured affectionately, smiling, brushing the backs of his fingers across Micky’s neck before releasing it. He hoped he didn’t need to say any more. Not here, anyway. _How could you think I wouldn’t still want you?_

Micky blushed and looked down at his shoes. Like a shy kid. Mike’s heart swelled. “Goddammit,” he chuckled. “Don’t _do_ that! You’re killin’ me, Mick.”

Micky laughed then, a musical, tinkling sound, and Mike beamed at him. The entire party faded into the background for a few moments and it was just the two of them gazing at each other like no one else in the world existed.

Micky didn’t mention his wife and Mike didn’t mention his. What they had between them had existed longer than any other romantic relationship they’d ever shared with anyone else in their lives so far. It had earned a place of its own. Something truly outside of anything else in their normal lives. At least that’s the unspoken way they chose to acknowledge it. It was just easier.

Mike leaned in close and whispered the name of a hotel and a room number into Micky’s ear, even daring to flick the tip of his tongue against the lobe, causing Micky to shiver.

“Two hours?”

Micky nodded. “Tops. I gotta put in some more time here … a few asses to kiss and a few to kick. Some people who told me this reunion would never fly had the gall to actually show up. They have some crow to eat and by god, I’m going to make sure they choke on it. And by the time I say goodbye to everyone else it’ll be time for our thirtieth reunion.”

“I really don’t care what you have to do — you better show up.”

Micky raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Now there’s the Nez I know and I love. Can only put on the amiable-guy act for so long, huh? Fits you like a cheap suit. I’ll be there.” He leaned in to hug Mike and then his lips were brushing Mike’s ear as he murmured, “And that suit better be on the floor where it belongs when I get there.” He released Mike, winked, and downed the rest of his drink as he let himself be pulled away by another well-wisher/hanger-on.

Mike felt that comment in his chest, all the way down to his dick. _Goddammit, Micky. How do you still do it after all this time?_

* * *

Micky found himself trying twice as hard to stay focused as he worked the room. To not keep running over the moment Mike whispered his room number to Micky and then just a light but lascivious touch of his tongue on his earlobe that went right to his dick and Micky knew for certain that they were going to fuck tonight. He wanted it more than anything — from the moment Mike had agreed to do the gig — but had also tried to prepare himself for the possibility that Mike wouldn’t be interested. It had been years, after all. Sometimes these things run their course ... and sometimes it’s a one-sided deal.

The Monkees revival had taken them all by surprise. It had been a gamble for Micky to take a potentially permanent leave of absence from the life he’d worked very hard to build for himself in England and step back into the spotlight. Wondering if it would just leave him as burned again as before.

But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t get off on the thrill of being in front of the cameras again instead of behind them. Finally feeling like they were getting a bit of damn respect and recognition after the Monkees had been the industry’s whipping boy all those years ago. _Twenty years later and we’re back on the air, charting new singles, and the fanbase just keeps growing. Take THAT, motherfuckers!_

Though it was a double-edged sword. First, having to manage Davy and Peter on his own. While Mike had often made everything worse when it came to the group’s internal politics and squabbles, he at least shouldered some of the load — if only because he couldn’t bear to hand over control of anything. Micky knew neither Davy nor Peter would agree with him, but Micky felt like the role of de facto Head Monkee had fallen to him. Peter was the one who’d got the ball rolling on the reunion, but it wasn’t his nature to take the lead. He shone best as a collaborator. Also, Micky was well aware that this was Pete’s first really major touring project since he got sober a few years back. It would take a lot of effort for him to just maintain and stay centered and healthy, and Micky respected that. He worried about Peter and didn’t want him to suffer any more than he already had. Davy was mostly interested in the minutia, the money, and appearing like he was calling the shots.

Second — and he was ashamed to admit this and would never say it out loud — Micky’s vanity was taking something of a beating because everything about the revival meant being inundated by images and sounds of his twenty-something self. Like with most things that made Micky feel uncomfortable or insecure, he transformed them into a joke or schtick. When doing TV press and they showed the inevitable clips from the show, Micky had taken to cartoonishly sobbing, “I was so young!” and mock-wailing while he pressed his face into a nearby shoulder or sofa cushion.

But that was based on the times when Micky looked in the mirror and wanted to wail for real. More hair in the sink and shower with every passing day. By some curse of genetics — or maybe just a life-long overabundance of manic energy — he’d had deep laugh/smile lines in his face even as a much younger man. But now they were gutters. At least that’s how it looked to him. He knew he was in good shape for a man his age. He was still slim and active and athletic and had energy to spare even after singing his heart out and shimmying on stage night after night. He thought he still looked pretty good naked. He could get it up with no problems as long as he didn’t drink too much.

But everything was an effort now. For years he’d eaten whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and moaned and groaned about how he couldn’t put on weight or build muscle. Complained about looking “cute” instead of handsome. Let them soak his hair in chemicals to straighten it and now he was going bald. What a joke. _They were right. Youth is wasted on the young_, he thought ruefully as he shook more hands and smiled, smiled, smiled.

* * *

Finally the official after-party started to break up and people began trickling out to either call it a night or continue the party elsewhere. Micky hadn’t seen any of the other Monkees in a while. He assumed Mike had split for the hotel, Peter … probably left early to avoid being around all the boozing, and Davy … probably to be around more of the boozing. Micky had received half a dozen invitations to keep hanging out with this group or that person, but he made his excuses and got into a taxicab.

Micky liked L.A. cabbies because they were a mostly unimpressed lot who didn’t try to make small talk with people they recognized. Micky received a nod of recognition and he gave a polite smile and nodded back, reminding himself to leave a generous tip, and then was left to return to his thoughts as the car moved through the L.A. night — taking Micky back to Mike.

He hadn’t been married the last times he and Mike had been sleeping together. He admitted he was the kind of man who loved the concept of marriage, loved being married, but struggled with monogamy. This dissonance had been the ruin of his first marriage and it wasn’t doing any favors for his second.

Case in point. He was finally understanding how Mike had been able to carry on with Micky while being married back in the day. What they had … it was different. He couldn’t describe why or how, but it just was. And it wasn’t the kind of affair where they’d end their other relationships to be together. It wasn’t like that with him and Mike. They ebbed and flowed like water. Sometimes washing up together and then being carried apart again. _Oof. Gettin’ a little greeting-card cornball there, buddy. Let’s dial it back a bit. _

Mike. Jesus. Apart from Davy’s “radical” (Micky used that term in a sarcastic surfer-dude sense) ’80s makeover, Mike probably looked the most different from his Monkees period. And definitely compared to the last time Micky had really seen him: exhausted, dishevelled, and underfed. If Micky hadn’t seen Mike on TV or in recent photos before walking on stage today, he would have been hard pressed to recognize him immediately. Hair cut short, tidy beard, expensive clothes, filled out a bit so he didn’t look quite so much like a beanpole with legs and sideburns. Though Micky had also found the beanpole-Mike to be very attractive and had proven that by fucking his brains out on the regular during the ’67 tour.

But he found this Mike to be very attractive as well. After all … it was Mike. And how Mike looked was only a fraction of what turned Micky on about him. And Mike knew how to press all of Micky’s buttons. Make him lose his mind. Give up his inhibitions and even his own free will. Make him come again and again. He felt a warmth building low in his belly as he considered what they were going to get up to tonight. He was a little bit nervous, too. Hoped he wasn’t disappointing somehow. Sometimes it wasn’t possible to recapture old times, but he hoped that whatever magic had touched the show tonight would extend to this rare night with this person he loved.


	3. That Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone at last. Mike and Micky make the most of their one night together. Confessions and declarations are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally -- the juicy stuff. With healthy doses of shmoop and a hint of angst.
> 
> CW: for two passing references to the AIDS crisis. I hesitated to include it, but it was 1986 and this new disease was a huge, terrifying question mark in North America. There still wasn't a great deal of public knowledge about it, except it was deadly and seemed to be affecting gay men the most. There was a lot of misinformation and fearmongering and it was a going concern, so I felt like I had to acknowledge it.

There was a moment, after Micky knocked, that the two men stood facing each other, separated now only by a door. They each took a deep breath and one opened the door, and the other stepped through it. They both smiled.

Micky tsked playfully at Mike. “You’re still dressed, Nez. I’m a little disappointed.”

“You wanted me to get the door naked?”

Micky shrugged, grinning. “It’s the hospitable thing to do. I’m starting to think you don’t like me all that much now.”

Mike abruptly pulled Micky into his arms and kissed him, deeply and passionately, with everything he’d been holding back all day. Holding in the back of his mind for fourteen years.

Micky melted against him with a groan, kissing him back hard and deep, licking into Mike’s mouth.

The kiss broke after a minute or so and they were breathing hard, looking at each other. “Yeah, I can’t fuckin’ stand ya,” Mike breathed. “Can you tell?”

Micky stared at him, panting, then let out a burst of staccato laughter, shaking his head in disbelief. “Mikey,” he sighed. “Oh, Mikey …”

Mike tugged Micky back into an embrace and they just held each other for a few long moments, amazed to be together. Amazed by the continued chemistry they shared.

Micky smiled, breathless, his face flushed. “I, uh, I know I said I was hoping for you to invite me back to your hotel, but, to be honest, I was a little surprised when you actually did.”

Mike pulled back a little to look at him, brow furrowed. “Yeah, I got that impression. Mick … you know how I feel about you.”

Micky shrugged, suddenly a little uncharacteristically shy and insecure, and found himself confessing something he barely wanted to admit to himself. “How you felt about the kid who grew up and … grew out a bit. Who’s losing more hair every day and gets constantly held up to his twenty-two-year-old self by the press.”

Mike stared at Micky, as he showed him that vulnerable face again. When he was just Mick, not Micky Dolenz of the the Monkees. And Mick needed something from Mike that he didn’t know how to ask for. And, for once, Mike actually knew what it was.

“Mick,” he said softly, reaching to cup his cheek. “You ain’t that old. And you’re beautiful. You’re still so fuckin’ beautiful.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Did I ever tell you how beautiful I thought you were? All those years ago? Did I ever say it out loud?”

Micky grinned bashfully and shook his head, unable to meet Mike’s eyes and Mike saw his cheeks pink even more.

“Goddamn … I never said it, did I?” Mike said, wondrous, almost to himself. “How have you put up with me and my bullshit for all these years, huh?”

Micky laughed softly. “Long, extended breaks — more than enough time to miss you and your bullshit.”

Mike leaned in and kissed him again, long and slow. Micky moaned softly into the kiss in the way Mike loved. Micky was still so vocal and responsive when he was turned on. He looked forward to all the sounds he was going to wring out of his lover tonight.

“I still see that gorgeous kid when I look at you,” Mike murmured. “But I also see a grown-ass man who is sexy all get-out. Still making the gals scream and soak their panties. Still getting me hard as a rock. You were white-hot tonight, babe.”

“They all wanted you tonight, too,” Micky said, smiling. “All those little girls who thought they loved cute little Davy grew up and realized what a sexy, gorgeous man you were all along. Finally seeing what I saw. What I still see. They were all dying for you tonight. You could be up to your ears in pussy right now, but instead you’re here with me. Sucker.”

Mike shrugged off the compliment. “Oh, hush, you. I’m a little thicker around the middle, but I’m told I wear it well. Was always too skinny anyway.”

Micky chuckled. “Remember how I used to moan and groan about being so skinny? What a fuckin’ idiot. If I could go back in time I’d give that kid a slap in the mouth.”

“Over my dead body,” Mike said, seriously, pulling Micky close for another kiss. “And you’re the only one I wanted to be with tonight. Been waitin’ here while you play Mr. Mover and Shaker. Now I need you to shake those clothes off and get into my bed. I have plans for you.”

Micky grinned. “Plans, huh? I like plans. But what I’d like more right now … a shower. I literally pulled on these clothes over my sweat after getting off stage. I know you never minded a bit of funk … we were dirty boys back in the day, but the stage lights are two hundred percent hotter now and this is too much for even me to feel comfortable with.”

Mike chuckled. “I could probably do with a wash. Start with a clean slate before we get each other filthy again.”

“Well, that’s the fun part,” Micky said. “Care to join me?”

“Mmmm. If I do that, we’ll never make it back to bed.”

“Suit yourself.” Micky smirked, turning and heading toward the bathroom. “I’ll just … go and get all hot and wet and soapy alllll by myself.” The door shut behind him.

Mike waited a few minutes for Micky to get going in the shower as he slowly undressed. He found Micky’s shyness rather sweet — and was a little relieved because it somewhat mirrored his own, but at the same time, he hoped Micky could shake it off because Mike wanted something more than a sweet, fumbling encounter. He _needed_ more than that and Micky had always been capable of giving him exactly what he needed when he needed it. Mike finally finished stripping down and opened the door to the bathroom. He could make out Micky’s naked form through the frosted glass and Mike’s cock, which was still mostly at half-mast after their kissing, twitched.

“You didn’t think I was _really_ gonna let you shower all alone, did you?” he said teasingly.

Micky laughed, rinsing the rest of the soap from his body. “I was wondering when the hell you were gonna get in here. For some crazy reason it’s easier getting naked in front of someone for the first time in years when everything is wet and slippery and hot.”

Mike smirked. “Now imagine that!” He opened the shower door, stepping inside. Micky’s arms encircled him and guided him under the hot spray. Mike groaned in pleasure from the hot water alone, and then more as Micky nuzzled into his neck, lapping at the water streaming down his skin, nipping playfully at his bearded jaw. Mike growled softly and pressed Micky up against the wall of the shower stall, pinning his wrists over his head, kissing him deeply and grinding up against him. Micky had filled out a little, but he was still slim and in good shape. His chest and belly had a thicker covering of hair now, as well, which Mike found strangely erotic. He was gorgeous. Mike felt another swell of emotion: love mixed with a kind of possessiveness. A desire to reclaim what he firmly believed was ultimately his.

Micky moaned shamelessly and kissed him back, eagerly opening his mouth to let Mike’s tongue slip inside, and it was like going back in time. Their shapes were a little different, but everything about the way Micky tasted and felt ... the way he made Mike’s mind and body react ... was the same. Mike kept kissing Micky and rocking his hips up against him, keeping him pinned until they were both hard and panting for breath between kisses. He had half a mind to just take Micky right there, but no … he’d waited too long for this. And fucking in the shower always looked better in the movies than it was in reality.

So Mike released Micky’s wrists, and drew his hands over Micky’s cheeks and over his head, pushing his long, wet hair off of his forehead (he’d always loved how Micky’s curly hair seemed to double in length when it was wet) and looking into his eyes. Micky smiled sweetly at him and kissed him again, running his hands over Mike’s body, relearning the feel of him, grazing his thumbs over hard nipples and his filled-out torso, down his back and over his ass. Mike was still so sexy. Strong and virile.

“I never said it, either, by the way,” Micky confessed when the kiss broke. “I think we both knew it was implied by the fact we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. But I remember the first time I thought it. That you were beautiful.”

Now it was Mike’s turn to blush. “Oh yeah? And when did you have that very questionable epiphany?”

Micky grinned bashfully again. “I always thought you were really groovy-looking. Really sexy. But that night when you got down on your knees and sucked my cock for the first time … you were beautiful.”

“Oh, is that it, huh?” Mike scoffed.

“No, no, you don’t understand,” Micky said, wiping more water from his eyes and placing his hands on Mike’s chest. “I mean, it was incredible when you did that. Because I never thought you would. And I could tell you were scared. More scared than when I first did it to you. But you did it anyway because you knew it would mean something to me. You were trying to show me that you really wanted to be with me. You were brave and you were such a _man_ about it, Mikey. You are the fucking manliest man I know. And you were beautiful. I finally realized it. And you’re beautiful now. So, now we’ve both said it. Only took a coupla decades!”

Mike was speechless for a moment and the only sound was of the water hitting the tiles.

“Goddamn it, kid. You still undo me after all this time.” And then Mike carefully lowered himself to his knees.

Micky laughed. “Oh, Mikey! I didn’t mean you had to … oh, fuck!” Because with no preamble, Mike had taken Micky deep into his mouth and began to hungrily suck his cock.

“Oh, Jesus,” Micky moaned, fumbling for the showerhead to angle it away slightly so Mike wouldn’t drown during his efforts. “Oh, Mike … fuck …” He looked down and the sight stirred him so. Mike looked up at him with a familiar twinkle in his eyes. _Never ceases to surprise, this one_, Micky thought. He threaded his fingers through Mike’s thick, wet hair and leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and giving himself over, feeling Mike’s lips and tongue work over him in all the ways he liked. He shuddered with pleasure, moaning Mike’s name and urging him on. He’d been so amped up since the show and the anticipation of meeting up with Mike again … he knew he wouldn’t last long. And Mike knew it, too. His fingers tightened in Mike’s hair and he let out a shaky, high-pitched moan on an inhale which served as enough warning because when Micky exhaled a trembling cry, Mike was ready and pulled back enough to let Micky spill into his mouth as he came, gasping and moaning.

Micky loved watching Mike swallow his load and he didn’t disappoint this time. Mike didn’t particularly enjoy the taste, but it was erotic to him because it was the ultimate physical proof of how he could get Micky off. And how he loved getting Micky off. He loved it so much he planned to do it at least twice more. Mike wasn’t sure if he had that many in him, but he had faith in Micky. Over forty or not, the man still radiated sex.

Still gasping, Micky offered him a hand and Mike wasn’t too proud to refuse it, gripping Micky’s hand and feeling his knees protest as he got up off the hard floor the tub to find his footing. Micky laughed, face still flushed from his orgasm. “We gotta be careful now, Gramps. We don’t have Life Call!”

“_Don’t_ say it!” Mike warned, chuckling.

But Micky screwed his face into a comical expression, adopted his patented old-lady voice and squawked out the now-ubiquitous commercial catchphrase, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”

Mike made a face, but laughed. “Oh, you really know how to set a mood, doncha?” He opened the shower door and pointed. “Get out. I still wanna wash and I won’t get that done with you in here driving me to distraction. I hope you already washed that cute ass, because I have some business to attend to there very shortly. Get yourself dried off.”

“Oooh.” Micky made a face. “Yes, sir!” He looked pointedly at Mike’s erection. “Sure you don’t need a little help with that? We might need a second of bar of soap. Lot of area to cover.”

“Git!” Mike swatted Micky on the ass. Micky hooted dramatically and shot Mike a look of indignant mock-hurt before stepping out the shower and closing the door in a huff.

Mike smirked as he readjusted the shower head and reached for the soap to wash himself down quickly; careful not to dwell too long on his dick, though it was tempting to rub the easy one out before he got to work on Micky, but he also liked the idea of saving it up. Making himself wait until he couldn’t hold back any longer. Truth be told, he wanted to still be impressive for Micky and worried maybe he wouldn’t be. They hadn’t gone to bed together in nearly fifteen years and, not dissimilar to Micky’s complaint, all this Monkees nostalgia mainly served to remind him that he wasn’t a twenty-something walking hard-on anymore. He was hardly ready to be put out to pasture yet; he could still get it up and then some. He still loved to fuck. But he was almost on the slippery slope to fifty, and he didn’t want to think his best days were behind him yet. He was feeling a little bit nervous. Putting on a bit of the dominating act helped him feel calmer and more confident about what lay ahead. A rare night with the person who revved his engine the most.

He stepped out of the bathroom, completely naked, and approached the bed. Micky was waiting for him, covered up to his waist by the sheet. Mike tsked. “Micky, baby, this shy act has gotta stop.” He whipped the sheet back to expose Micky entirely. “I’ve kissed nearly every inch of this body and loved it. Don’t hide from me now.” He lowered himself onto the bed and tugged Micky into his arms to kiss him.

Micky relaxed into the kiss, but then murmured, “Nearly every inch?”

“Nearly. There’s at least one place I haven’t kissed you yet and I was too damn chicken to even consider it twenty years ago. Or even back in seventy-two. Lord, it wasn’t even that I wouldn’t consider it — I just didn’t know it was a thing that anyone did!” Mike brushed another kiss over Micky’s lips and then nudged him onto his front.

Micky rolled over, chuckling. “Oh, my sweet country bumpkin. But, hey, it was different times. I had to get my first lesson on anal sex from Peter Tork, remember?”

“I’m still trying to forget,” Mike joked. He slipped a pillow under Micky’s hips and kissed the cleft of his ass. “You still have the cutest little butt, kid. I’ve missed it.”

“Again with the _kid_. Ha! Yeah, right-ahhh, oh, fuck …” Micky’s self-deprecating joke died on his lips as Mike spread his cheeks open and flickered his tongue over and around his hole. “Fucking hell, I’m really glad I showered now! Oh god …”

Mike chuckled, huffing hot breath against some of Micky’s most sensitive parts. He stroked over Micky’s hole with his tongue, sometimes teasing, other times firm and hard. He licked over the taint and down to tease his balls. Micky moaned and whimpered, his cock slowly growing hard and heavy again, his hips twitching against the pillow. Mike nipped him sharply on his right cheek, causing Micky to yelp in surprise more than pain.

“Don’t you be humping that pillow like a horny teenager. I made you come in the shower so I could get you off proper the way I want now — by fucking your tight little ass. You don’t come until I say, you get it?”

“Yes,” Micky panted, easily falling back into this role again, his muscles relaxing as he submitted. It was a relief, really. As thrilling and lucrative as the unexpected renaissance of Monkeemania had been, it came with a steep price tag. The stress of being on the road, playing four to five one-night stands in a row with often only one day off in between, managing the deeply damaged egos of his bandmates (and his own, if he was honest with himself), keeping on top of the business aspect because damned if he was getting fucked over in _that_ again, and travelling endless hours in a cramped tour bus with his wife, three small girls, and the nanny. It was a lot to cope with. And now Micky was being asked to hand over all control to Mike for one night and he was happy to do it. “Yes,” he repeated. “I’m yours, Mike. I want you.”

“And you got me,” Mike said roughly, kissing the spot he’d just bitten. “And I got you now. You’re mine. Hang on … it’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”

He pushed his tongue inside Micky for emphasis and drank in his shuddering cry of pleasure. He alternated between fucking Micky with his tongue and licking and teasing him. He yanked the pillow out from under Micky’s hips so he could more easily get at his balls and reach under to tease his hard-on and listen to Micky begin to whine for more … more of everything. Mike smiled and went back to licking him again. Nineteen years ago he hadn’t known about rim jobs or any of that kind of stuff. He’d been young and horny and impatient and eager to just get his dick inside Micky’s mouth or ass … ideally both. Eager to fuck. And Micky had been so willing. Insatiable. Like a walking goddamn wet dream. Now he wanted to enjoy his prize a little longer. Who knew when they’d have the chance again.

But he didn’t want to overplay his hand. His cock was aching and Micky was trembling, begging for more. He’d been planning to ask Micky to beg, but the kid beat him to the punch.

“Please, Mike … please …”

Mike pressed a tender kiss over Micky’s hole and then licked up the length of his spine, crouching over him to whisper in his ear. “Please … what, Micky?”

“Please … fuck me.”

“You think I don’t know how much you want that? With your ass up in the air, showin’ me everything you got to offer?”

“Mike!” Micky whined.

Mike chuckled, rubbing his palm over one of Micky’s butt cheeks, then slapping it lightly. “All right, all right. You’ve earned it, I reckon.” He moved away briefly to fetch a bottle of lube he’d placed in the bedside table earlier. He slicked up his fingers first and touched Micky, easing two fingers inside slowly.

Micky moaned softly and Mike let out a breath. “You’re tight, Mick. Real tight…”

“… been outta commission for a while … it’s just not worth the risk right now …”

Mike nodded and didn’t question further. Micky’s answer could be due to the fact that he was trying to be a more faithful husband, but Mike knew his old friend well enough to know that marital fidelity wasn’t his strong suit, and this had more to do with the increasing concern about a mysterious new and deadly disease that seemed to be primarily affecting men who engaged in sexual activity with other men. Not that Micky needed a man to engage in anal play, but it sounded like he didn’t seek it out, and it wasn’t really something a man wanted to ask his wife to provide. Maybe they were really old-fashioned that way now. Mike was the same … and when he wanted this kind of action, he really just wanted it from the person currently in his bed.

And so he touched Micky, stroking fingers into him and stretching him until Micky was panting and bucking up against him, begging again. Mike pressed a kiss to the small of his back and withdrew his fingers, so eager for this moment, yet still wanting to postpone it somehow.

But Mike finally teased the slick head of his cock over and around Micky’s entrance. Micky shuddered and bit back a whine of impatience. 

“Say it again,” Mike asked roughly, still teasing Micky’s hole, though all he wanted to do was be surrounded his tight heat again after all these years. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“I’m yours,” Micky moaned. “It’s you, Mikey.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Mike murmured, and suddenly he was saying words he’d thought of many times, but never said aloud even to himself, let alone Micky. “I don’t care who the fuck you’re married to or who else you’re fucking or how many oceans separate us … you’re mine. I made you mine in sixty-seven and nothing’s changed. Goes both ways, kid. I’m yours, too. For always.”

“I love you, Mike,” Micky whimpered softly, shaking with need. 

“I love you, too. I’ve loved you for twenty years, Micky.” And then they both cried out in ecstatic relief as Mike finally claimed Micky for his own again, pushing hard inside and gripping his hips hard as he rocked into him. _I can’t believe I just said that out loud. But dammit, it needed to be finally said. _

* * *

It burned. It burned like hell, but it was also so damn good. Micky groaned, clutching at a pillow as Mike pushed into him, filling him in a way he’d almost let himself forget. And the thing Mike had said … what was that? He couldn’t process that right now. He focused on Mike’s long fingers digging into his hips and the heat and the size of him. Micky moaned helplessly and rocked eagerly back against Mike, driving him deeper, hoping it would trigger Mike to say ...

“Oh, you love it, don’t you?” he purred, rolling his hips. watching his cock thrusting in and out of Micky’s ass. “Can’t get enough of my cock ... how long have you been waiting to come home so you could get back in my bed and beg for it?”

Oh, there it was. And then Mike snapped his hips forward forcefully, causing Micky to cry out. He still loved it when Mike talked dirty to him.

“Too long,” he gasped. “Too fucking long. I need it, Mike. I want it … fuck me … fuck me hard …”

But then Mike pulled out with a growl and Micky opened his mouth to protest, but Mike grabbed his hip and urged Micky over onto his back and oh, yes, now Micky could see him. Mike lifting Micky’s long legs — still so slender and sexy … toned from playing polo — over his shoulders and sinking back into him, so deep.

Micky made a noise that could only qualify as obscene and looked up at Mike, recognizing the same dark, lustful look in his brown eyes and the purse of his full lips as he concentrated on working his cock in and out of Micky. And then he was driving in deeper than ever and finding Micky’s sweet spot, causing him to let out a gasping cry. “Oh, fuck, Mike. It’s so good. Don’t stop, please …”

And then he felt Mike’s slick hand close possessively around his cock and stroke him, and he shuddered and moaned, then cried out again at Mike hit him so deep. He wouldn’t be able to last much longer now, but he wasn’t going to ask … Mike would tell him … oh god …

Mike jerked Micky’s cock the way he had so many times before. And, like so many times before, he could tell when Micky was getting close. The idea that even now he still knew his lover’s body so well sent another rush of arousal through his system. He snapped his hips and drove harder and deeper into Micky.

“Come for me,” he instructed, looking down and meeting Micky’s eyes. “Give me every goddamn thing you have. It’s mine and I want it now. Give it up.”

The harsh, demanding need of Mike’s words were the final trigger and Micky’s back arched as he came with a sharp cry, and Mike jerked him as his cock spurted onto his chest and belly. Mike fucked and jerked Micky until he’d milked every last drop out of him, then Mike’s hands gripped Micky’s thighs and he pounded into him until he let out a guttural moan and came, pulsing hot and hard into Micky’s ass. As he climaxed, Mike slid his hand up Micky’s body, smearing the sticky semen into the hair on his lover’s chest and belly, rubbing the wet over his hard nipples, causing Micky to moan, and Mike gave a few more lazy thrusts, before he finally slowed and stopped. He tasted Micky from his fingers, then eased Micky’s legs off his shoulders and pulled out, falling next to him on the bed.

“Oh, Jesus,” Micky gasped, his legs splaying out, closing his eyes as he panted.

Mike just grunted, unable to even speak for a minute or two.

Then, finally. “Hell, I worried it might not be as good because … it’s been so long. And we ain’t in our twenties anymore.”

“It got better,” Micky said, somewhat awestruck.

“How the fuck did we manage _that_?”

Micky let out a gasping chuckle. “Because we’re gooood, baby. We’ve always been good together.”

Mike turned his head to look at Micky. “I really wanna kiss you right now, but I reckon I should brush my teeth first.”

Micky turned his head, as well, smirking. “Well, I did have a good wash beforehand, but you, uh, … got right up in there. So, yeah. I think that’s a good idea. And maybe grab me a washcloth.” He indicated the sticky, drying mess on his chest and belly. “You weren’t kidding about getting me filthy again.”

“I do keep some promises. You went and got even fuzzier on me, Fuzzy. I just wanted to make you come all over yourself and rub it into that sexy fur of yours.”

“You are a dirty, filthy man,” Micky quoted, his eyes twinkling.

“I do try, y’know.” Mike brushed a kiss over Micky’s cheek and forced himself to sit up and go to the bathroom.

Inside, he looked at himself in the mirror and couldn’t help but give a cheeky grin. Damn, that had been good. Though he wished he could have gone for a little bit longer. The night wasn’t that young, but he wasn’t that concerned about getting a great night’s sleep. He brushed his teeth and rinsed. And, on second thought, gave himself a little washdown, particularly on his dick, since he was hoping to get into Micky’s hot mouth later. He ran another washcloth under warm water, wrung it out and brought it out to Micky.

Micky reached for it, but Mike held it out of his reach. “No, please, let me do the honors of cleaning up the mess I made. Though I think it’s more of a tableau.”

Micky grinned, adopting his posh English accent. “Yes, yes, quite. I see what you’ve done here, Mr. Nesmith. Interesting choice of medium.”

Mike very slowly and tenderly ran the warm cloth over Micky’s belly, then his chest, circling his nipples, then back down again. “Well, yes. Micky Dolenz been a favorite canvas for quite some time now. One might say he’s my muse.” He smirked, and dipped his head to kiss Micky softly on the mouth before tossing the cloth aside and lying down again, pulling Micky into his arms. They both sighed happily and rested.

Micky’s hair was beginning to air-dry and it was curling and frizzing and doing all kinds of interesting things. Micky wore it blow-dried now to help conceal his thinning spot near the back of his head. But now it was exposed and Mike couldn’t help but press a soft kiss there.

He felt Micky tense up in his embrace. “Miiiiike. No … c’mon …”

“Happens to the best of us, kid. Me ’n’ Peter got hairlines receding faster than the coastline. I think Davy killed some poor critter in the woods and slapped that on his head. You gotta promise me you’ll never do that, okay?”

Micky snorted at the visual. “What … wear a carcass as a hat?”

“Get one of ’em horrible rugs like an L.A. slimeball. Or hair plugs. They never look right. And the fellas what get ’em done are the ones with so much money and power that no one wants to tell ’em they look ridiculous.”

“But I am an L.A. slimeball!”

“Oh, but here I thought you were an English gent now, cheerio!”

Micky chuckled, nuzzling into Mike’s neck. “The slime never really washes off. But fine, I won’t get a rug. Can’t promise I won’t resort to increasingly creative combovers and a variety of hats in the future, though.”

“Man, I say just let nature take its course, but if you wanna be all vain about it … just no rugs or plugs. Rather see you bald as a cueball than wearing some fake-shit hair on your head.”

“Would you not wanna fuck me anymore if I did?”

“Strong possibility, shotgun. I have my limits.”

“Well, in that case!”

Mike paused. “Just kidding. I’d still fuck you. But I’d bitch and moan about the rug the whole time so it would hardly be worth your while.”

Micky chuckled softly, then went quiet for a moment. “Hey, Mike …”

“Yeah, Mick?”

“What you said … just before …”

“Yeah, I meant it,” Mike said, deciding to be direct and own up to what he’d said. “It wasn’t just fuck-talk. I meant it. Though I can’t imagine you’re that surprised.”

Micky chuckled. “Wow. I thought I was going to have to work a lot harder to get you to give me a straight answer about that.”

Mike shrugged. “I’m still an ornery sonuvabitch, Micky. And I still like having things my own way. I ain’t changed that much, but I finally grew up some. And tried to look inside and figure out why I kept getting in my own way. You helped me a lot with that. That damn salmon/stream analogy. Stuck with me.”

Micky laughed softly, amazed. “You’re joking.”

“Naw, it’s true. And I realized even back then that what I felt for you was … the real thing. But I was a goddamn mess.”

“We both were.”

Mike nodded. “But you understand what I mean when I say … I’ve loved you for all this time?” He shifted somewhat uncomfortably.

Micky smiled and stroked a reassuring hand over Mike’s chest. “Yeah, I do, Mikey. Of course I do. It’s … what it is. What it’s always been. You don’t have to explain, but it’s nice to hear. And I feel the same way. We’re okay. Everything’s fine.”

Mike let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and relaxed. He turned onto his side so he could look at Micky. “I missed you. Like crazy. But I knew it was for the best that we just … figure our shit out first. Micky … it was rough havin’ you on the other side of the ocean for so many years, but I gotta tell you how proud I was. I am. To see what you made of yourself over there. It’s really something.”

Micky smiled. “Right back at you, Mike. Yeah … it … was the right thing to do. It wasn’t even my plan to stay there, but it worked out. I needed … something had to change. Because you were right, man. Davy and I went for the low-hanging fruit with the Boyce and Hart act. It was fun for a while. The money was all right. And Tommy and Bobby are the best. It felt really good to get out there again and be on stage and sing the songs. I could deal with the state fairs and stuff, but when I found myself singing to a bunch of drunks in casinos …” Micky trailed off uncomfortably, looking away, and Mike stroked his hair.

“I know, Mick. It’s okay. I can tell you a thing or two about playing to drunks … or people who come to see you, but they don’t want the thing you’re doing. And they’ve only come to the show to tell you that. They just want the thing you used to do. Mean crowds.”

“These drunks weren’t mean. Well, okay, sometimes they were. But they were just there to see us because they’d lost all their money gambling. They were losers. And I realized I was a loser, too.”

“You’re not a loser, Micky.”

“You know what I mean. We’d played sold-out shows to Wembley and Madison Square Garden and less than ten years later I was a cheesy lounge act. I wasn’t even thirty years old. I’d never felt farther away from being an actor. I felt washed up the way you did — you just figured it out sooner. You always did.”

“I’m older, Micky. I had a … very different kind of life growing up. I always felt way older than the rest of you.”

“Papa Nez,” Micky murmured affectionately.

“Mmmm. Nicknames often come from a place of truth.”

“Mmmm. Gosh, I’m tired, babe.”

“’Course you are. You rehearsed with me, performed a full show, schmoozed a party, and then got your dick sucked and your ass fucked. You’ve had a full day.”

Micky chuckled roughly, his eyes fluttering shut. “But we only got this one night …”

“Have a rest, baby. We still got time. Just have a rest.” Mike tugged the sheet and blanket over them.

“Mmmkay.” Micky felt Mike kiss that spot on his head again, but it didn’t bug him so much this time. And he was so tired, and Mike was so warm.

* * *

Micky woke up some time later. He was disoriented for a moment, unsure of where he was, but then he heard snoring and he’d know that snoring anywhere. He smiled and was also pleased to see that it wasn’t light out yet. He’d needed to rest awhile, but time was growing short. The band’s weeklong residency at the Hilton in Las Vegas began … today. And Micky would have to get up and get back to his own hotel to get packed and on the road. But he didn’t want to think about that right now. There would be plenty of time for that later.

He nuzzled into Mike’s neck, kissing and licking and nibbling. He smoothed his hand over Mike’s warm, hairy chest, fondling his nipples.

The snoring stopped.

And then Mike was making warm, sleepy noises, mumbling Micky’s name and Micky shushed him softly and kissed down his neck and over his chest, sucking and teasing Mike’s nipples until they hardened under his tongue. He slipped a hand down between Mike’s legs to hold his huge, beautiful cock in his hand. It was soft, but twitched slightly in Micky’s palm and he felt his own surge of arousal, proud and happy that his touch still affected Mike so.

Mike made a soft, rumbling “mmmm” sound deep in his chest and Micky smiled, gently squeezing and stroking Mike’s cock, feeling it beginning to harden as he continued to lick and kiss his way down Mike’s body, moving the blankets aside to expose more skin. And then he was nuzzling between Mike’s legs, breathing in his musky scent, licking and teasing at the tender skin of his inner thighs. Remembering the time he bit Mike there after giving him head for the very first time. His hand was still working on Mike’s cock, which was stiffening rapidly, and Mike let out soft sounds of pleasure.

Micky took his time, sucking Mike’s balls into his mouth, one at a time, kissing the base of his cock. Anything to keep Mike making the noises he was making as his breath quickened. He moaned Micky’s name softly, needy.

Micky teased him until Mike let out a whimpered, “Please …” and Micky finally relented and let Mike’s dripping cock slide deeply into his mouth. Mike’s back arched and he groaned in pleasure. “Oh, fuck … Micky … yes …”

Micky cradled Mike’s thighs in his hands and gave him a long, slow, luxurious blowjob. The kind one might receive from a spouse on a birthday or very special occasion. This was, indeed, a very special occasion.

Mike propped up on his elbows because among the things in the world he most enjoyed seeing with his own eyes — Micky blowing him ranked pretty highly.

“So fucking good,” he sighed. “You look so hot with my dick in your mouth.”

Micky looked up, met his eyes, and actually winked. Mike laughed for a moment, then let out a shuddering groan as Micky did something with his tongue that should probably be illegal. And then he was sucking Mike harder and faster and Mike didn’t want it to be over, but it felt so good to just let go and he came, groaning deeply, hips twitching, pleasure flooding his senses as he watched Micky swallow what he was given.

Micky sucked him until Mike was completely spent, and then a little bit more, licking him clean and placing a tender kiss on the sensitive head before moving back up to lie next to Mike, looking extraordinarily pleased with himself.

Still panting, Mike looked over and chuckled at Micky’s smug expression. “I swear, kid … you promise you’ve never taken a class on giving head?”

Micky laughed and shook his head.

“Instructional video?”

“Nope!”

“Informative pamphlet, at least.”

Micky cracked up and kissed Mike on the lips. “Just a lot of practice a long time ago with a big ol’ cock that needed a lot of attention.” He slipped an arm around Mike’s torso and rested his head on his shoulder. “I was remembering the first time. That crazy night. My god. You asked me to suck your dick and by that point I was like … why not?”

Mike rested his cheek on the top of Micky’s head, reaching out to stroke his arm. “We crossed a lot of lines real quick. Lines we couldn’t go back on.”

“Maybe we just needed a reason in the end. That high … gave us permission to … try stuff.”

Mike smiled a little. “Could very well be.”

“At now least you don’t have to sneak out of the room before dawn.”

Mike was very quiet for a little while, and Micky wondered if maybe he’d drifted off to sleep again, but then he said, very softly, “I was real scared when I left you in that room, Mick. That night. I finally fell asleep because the come-down knocked me flat, but I was scared, and woke up sick and scared.”

Micky looked up at him. “I know, Mikey. I was scared, too. About what was going to happen to us after. I mean, hell, we didn’t talk about it for weeks, I —”

“No, no,” Mike cut him off. “ Not about that. Well, yeah, I was scared about that, too. But I was scared about leaving you alone. You were … real logy. Out of it. I worried … maybe you wouldn’t wake up. And it would be my fault for leavin’ you. We were idiot kids — taking random drugs that people gave us. It was all supposed to be fun. Before everyone started dyin’. Jimi … sweet Jimi. Cass, Janis, Morrison, Brian, Gram, Timmy Buckley. Felt like everyone was droppin’ like flies for a while. If we’d dropped that stuff a coupla years later, I never would have left you. In fact, I probably would have flushed the shit to begin with.”

“Hey …” Micky whispered, tightening his embrace. “I’m still here. We’re all still here. All four of us. We made it over the hill.”

“I know, I know, I just —”

Micky kissed him tenderly. “You big softie. You really played your cards so close to the chest. I think it’s … really sweet that you worried. You know me when I’m sleepy … once I’m out, I’m out. You got me off that last time and I was down for the count. That’s all it was.”

“I know. I just … if it had gone another way, I don’t know what I would have done, Mick. Knowing you’d died because I’d been too worried about us being found together in the same room the next morning. Which was dumb because I coulda gotten dressed and slept there and just said I was keeping an eye on your high ass and fallen asleep. But I wasn’t thinkin’ straight. I was …”

“High on drugs and a married man who had just had his very first — very spontaneous — homosexual experience,” Micky chuckled. “There was nothing ‘straight’ about anything we did that night, Mikey.”

Mike cracked up in spite of himself. “Micky! Good lord!”

Micky kissed his cheek. “You forget it’s my job to crack a bad joke when you start spiralling, Nez. And now you’re spiralling over shit that happened decades ago. Cut yourself a break. I’d say we’re all pretty lucky to have survived the sixties and seventies. We had no idea what we were doing. There didn’t seem to be any consequences for anything. Girls were on the Pill and Leary said LSD was the gateway to higher consciousness. We thought we were ending wars and flying to the moon and reinventing music and politics and humanity and the entire damn _world_ and everything was gonna be groovy forever.”

“Boy, were we dumb.”

“Naw,” said Micky, kissing Mike’s cheek once more and rolling onto his back again. “We were lucky. Fuckin’ lucky. I see what Ami is growing up in now … the drugs are lethal now. And whatever this AIDS shit is. Maybe we’re gonna get nuked by the Soviets next week, who knows? Or maybe ol’ Ronnie will press the button first. My other girls are so little right now, but I’m terrified for Ami. Sammy and I try to talk to her about that stuff, but it’s hard.”

Mike nodded. “Yeah. Especially when they look at you like you’re the biggest square in the world and then say, ‘Well, what were _you_ doing in the sixties, _Dad_? Duh!’”

Micky laughed at the tone of voice that Mike adopted … just like an eighties teenager. “Yes, exactly. It sucks being the heavy.”

“Well, let’s be honest here, pal — we let our exes do most of that work.”

Micky snorted. “Yeah. You’re right.”

“We’re lucky little shits.”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t have agreed with you ten years ago, but I know it now. And now we got a second chance to do it right. Do it better. The band, I mean.”

Mike raised an eyebrow. He’d been hearing a lot of this talk. About the so-called future of the Monkees. A new record, new TV projects, a movie, everything. Sounded more than a little pie-in-the-sky to him. He’d held his tongue because he didn’t want to rain on the parade in classic Nesmith style, but he was feeling like the only one who saw this for what it was: a fad. The revival was like a comet streaking across the sky: capturing everyone’s attention with its brilliance and white-hot light and heat. But it wouldn’t last. It was never meant to. People would forget about it and move on until it was time for the comet to come across the sky again in a few years.

He chanced a comment. “Well, yeah, it’s a pretty groovy thing, Mick. But, um … I hope you ain’t puttin’ all of your eggs in one basket with this, y’know?”

Micky blinked. “No! No … of course not. I’m not … what, you think this thing doesn’t have legs?”

Mike shrugged. “Naw, I ain’t sayin’ that. You guys are making all the right moves to keep the momentum up. But … y’know … just don’t wanna see any of y’all get burned by this. That’s all.”

“Once bitten, twice shy,” Micky said, chuckling. “Is that another reason why you won’t do more with us, Mike? Because, I tell ya, it’s different now, it’s —”

Mike kissed Micky tenderly on the mouth, effectively cutting him off. “Micky … my love. We got this one night and that’s about all the shop talk I can take. You’ve tuckered me out again. We can talk about that stuff another time. Okay?”

Micky blinked at the endearment. Mike had never used it before. He nodded. “Okay, Mike. You’re right.” He swallowed a yawn.

“C’mon, kid,” Mike said, finding the sheet and blanket and tugging it up over them again and pulling Micky into his arms. “You got another big day tomorrow. It’s what, a …”

“A weeklong residency at the Hilton,” Micky yawned, nuzzling into the crook of Mike’s neck. “But we’ve been going straight since the fourth. And we don’t get a day off until the sixteenth.”

“Jesus, Micky,” Mike murmured. “That’s a lot.”

“Mmmm. Well, at least no more one-night stands for a little while. That’ll be nice.”

Mike pressed a kiss to Micky’s forehead and felt a familiar swell of protectiveness. _Don’t let them run you into the ground, kid. You ain’t that old, but you also ain’t twenty-two anymore._

He held Micky close until the younger man drifted back into sleep. And even after he drifted off as well, remembering nights when the sound of Micky’s sleeping breath was often the only thing that kept him from trashing his hotel room in utter claustrophobic frustration of the fishbowl life on the road.

_I owe you so much, Mick._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I took some info from this raw, unedited interview Micky gave in early 1986. Before the revival really took off and before he'd polished any of his talk-show schtick, including his Monkees origin story. He's very calm and extremely patient. The comment about playing to "loser" drunks in casinos comes from that. https://youtu.be/kK3mCl8lzh8
> 
> * Micky jokes about the famous Life Call commercial the "I've fallen and I can't get up lady" -- it's an anachronism. I thought the ad dated farther back, but in fact it didn't debut until three years later in 1989. But I liked the joke, so I kept it.


	4. The Next Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All good things must come to an end. Micky rejoins the tour and Peter has a question. Several, actually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this latest installment. I honestly don't know if it will go on from here or not. Not sure how many people want to read flirty/smutty fic about the 50-year-old version of the boys and beyond. Though the hot mess of the 1996/7 reunion cycle certainly is full of material.
> 
> Again, this is fiction with some facts mixed in. I don't know these people. I just did so much reading and was so struck by how much of the Monkees story is really very sad. These four young men were just thrown onto a two-year rollercoaster ride and then essentially dumped on the side of the road and left to their own devices. And they all imploded in their own way. Peter gave some very frank and heartbreaking interviews about this period of his life and that's where some of his stuff in this chapter comes from. For this kind of fic, I wouldn't make up terrible things happening to the guys just for the sake of drama. Peter went through a lot and came out on the other end with his kindness and humanity still intact. I miss him terribly, but glad he lived to get old(er). I feel like I gave him a bit of a raw deal in this series, so he gets his moment at the end.

Mike woke up to soft kisses trailing over his neck and ears, and Micky’s warm, lithe body pressed up against his back.

“Mmmm, good morning, Mick.”

“I think it could be a real good morning,” Micky purred, nibbling the back of Mike’s neck and pressing his hard, hot cock up against his ass.

“Oh, I see … oh!”

A very warm, very slick hand was touching him. Teasing his balls, massaging them gently, then teasing the base of his shaft, then sliding up along his perineum and into the crack of his ass. He made a soft noise, not quite fully on board with this plan yet, but not dismissing it, either. Micky teased him with slick fingers for a good few more minutes until he started focusing his attention on Mike’s asshole. He was giving Mike time to decide.

“I want you,” he whispered. “Just like this.” He slid a finger into Mike, then another.

What Micky didn’t say was that Mike could say no. He knew Mike knew he could say no and it would be okay. He was asking for what he wanted. But Mike knew that Micky probably needed this from him more than he wanted to admit, and Mike wanted to give it. Mick had given him so much already. And though it had been a very, very long time and it would be initially uncomfortable, Mike needed this, too. He groaned softly. “Yeah, Micky. You take what you need. I told you … I’m yours.”

“Thank you.” The two words whispered reverently, like a prayer, as Micky stroked his fingers slowly, in and out, feeling and stretching. Micky was the only person who’d ever had Mike this way and at some point, a long time ago, Mike had decided that’s how he wanted it to stay. He didn’t impose the same rule on Micky, but for him, he only would let one person get close to him in this particular way. So Mike didn’t have to ask Micky to take it easy. He already knew.

And Micky took his time, fingering him slowly, and being sure to give Mike’s cock and balls and perineum lots of attention as well; letting his body wake up slowly and warm up to the arousal. Micky kissed his neck and ears, murmuring softly to him, and Mike relaxed, letting out a long breath, melting back against Micky, trusting his touch, and the pleasure he would bring.

And then Micky was lining himself up and holding Mike’s hip for leverage. He kissed Mike’s shoulder tenderly, and whispered, “Remember, take a breath, then let it go.”

Mike did as Micky asked, trying to relax as much as he could, but he still let out a pained groan as Micky entered him. Micky kissed his shoulder again and stroked Mike’s torso soothingly, keeping still until he felt Mike’s muscles unclench a little and then he moved in a little more.

“Are you okay, Mikey?” Micky asked softly.

“… yeah. I’ll be okay. It’s just been a long, long time. But I want it. I want you. I want to be feelin’ you for the next three days the way you’ll be feelin’ me.”

“The parting gift that keeps on giving,” Micky said with a small chuckle.

Mike chuckled as well, then groaned. “Do not make me laugh when you’re up my ass, Dolenz. Good lord …”

Micky stifled another laugh and Mike reached around to swat him on the bottom. “Get serious or get out, fella. This is no laughin’ matter for me.”

Then Micky sank the rest of the way in and Mike groaned, trembling. Micky wasn’t laughing anymore. “Oh, fuck, Mike … god, it feels so good. Mike …” and he started to move, very slowly, thrusting his slick, hard cock partway out and then sinking in deep again.

Mike closed his eyes and bit back a whimper. It hurt, but it also felt incredible to have Micky inside him. Filling him, holding him so close. His muscles started to remember, started to ease up and before long Micky was taking him in smooth, unhurried thrusts. His mouth on Mike’s neck, ears, and shoulder, hands running over his body.

“You feel so good,” Micky repeated against the back of his neck. “So good, Mikey. I missed you.”

“Me, too, babe,” Mike groaned. “Oh, Micky …”

It felt incredible. Mike was so tight. Mike was moaning in pleasure. Mike was … Mike. And then Micky was pulling out and Mike protested softly, but fell silent when Micky said, “I need to see your face. I need to kiss you.”

And then he was inside again, their bodies flush together, Mike’s long legs bent up to allow Micky deeper inside as they kissed, long and slow. Last night they fucked, and this morning they were making love.

Micky angled his hips and started aiming for Mike’s prostate, and smiling proudly when he found it and Mike let out a shuddery groan of pleasure, his body quaking under Micky. Micky sighed and kissed Mike’s neck and throat, breathing hot against his skin, whispering his name, as he thrust in again and again, deeper and harder.

He could feel Mike’s hard cock leaking against him and Mike whimpered, reaching for himself, but Micky batted his hand away. He considered really going for it and trying to make Mike come without touching his cock. _But I love touching his cock … may not get to for a long time, so what am I trying to prove?_

So he gave Mike what he wanted and drank in his lover’s grateful moan as he began to stroke him in time with his thrusts.

It was pretty rare that Mike took the more submissive role in sex and he took this opportunity to just soak in how Micky seemed to be everywhere. Buried deep inside him, his hands tenderly stroking his body and his face and his cock. His mouth either kissing Mike’s mouth or over his neck and shoulder and his nipples and goddamn, Mike couldn’t keep track, but Micky was in so deep and he’d found Mike’s sweet spot and wasn’t letting up on it, carrying Mike higher and higher and closer to the edge of the cliff and then Mike let out a gasping cry and he was flying and falling and groaning Micky’s name as he expertly jerked Mike’s cock and fucked him through an exquisite orgasm.

“Micky,” he finally murmured, reaching up for him, holding him and kissing him, rocking up with him until Micky let out a cry and Mike held him as his hips shuddered and bucked as he came inside Mike. Mike ran his hands through Micky’s hair and groaned, “I love you.”

“I love you,” Micky gasped shakily, collapsing slowly on top of Mike and burying his face in Mike’s neck.

They lay quietly for a few moments and then Micky slowly pulled out and snuggled up next to Mike. He kissed Mike’s neck and rubbed a lazy hand over his lover’s furry chest.

“Mmmm, Mikey, what time is it?”

Mike stole a glance at the bedside clock and reported his findings to Micky.

“Oh … fucking hell.”

Mike smiled sadly and kissed the top of Micky’s head.

* * *

The next twenty minutes were a flurry of activity as Micky hustled into the shower — alone this time — and Mike put on a pair of boxers and called down to the concierge to arrange for a car to be waiting for Micky when he got downstairs. He needed to get to his hotel to meet up with Peter and Davy and their team and travel to Las Vegas for the next leg of the tour.

Mike stood up and stretched, wincing a little from some residual soreness after his very enthusiastic and rigorous wake-up call from Micky. The shower stopped and he could hear Micky fussing in the bathroom a few minutes later. Then the hair dryer went on. Yawning, Mike idly scratched himself and ambled over to his suitcase, rummaging around until he found what he was looking for. The hair dryer sound stopped and the fussing and cursing was growing louder. Mike walked back to the bathroom and opened the door. Micky turned to look at him, anxious and annoyed, half-dressed in his wrinkled clothes from last night, parts of his hair standing on end.

Mike grinned and let out a giggle.

“It’s not funny!” Micky snapped. “It’s … I’m late and … why are these hotel hair dryers always so SHITTY?”

Mike wordlessly held out his offering to Micky. Micky looked down at it, sighed, then chuckled at Mike. He took the worn, black baseball cap from Mike and put it on. “Thanks. I’ll return it … I dunno …”

“It’s yours now, Mick. Don’t worry about what you look like right now. You can fix yourself up later. I got a car waiting for you downstairs. I’ll let you finish getting dressed.”

Micky managed a small smile. “Thanks, babe.”

Mike just smiled and left Micky to finish getting ready.

* * *

And then it was time to go. Micky stood in front of Mike and it reminded him of the other times they’d had to say goodbye to each other.

Mike slipped his arms loosely around Micky’s waist. “Don’t be so glum, chum. It ain’t like last time, when I had no idea where I was going to end up. You know where I’m at. And I can just look at the tour roster to see where you’ll be. You thinkin’ of relocating back to L.A. when this is all done?”

Micky nodded, running his hands lightly over Mike’s arms. “Not decided yet, but if projects pan out … it’s looking like a strong possibility.”

“Would be nice to have you on the right side of the pond and on the same coast, kid.”

Micky nodded again. He smiled softly. “Thanks for coming out to play, Mikey. It meant the world. To all of us. Even if Davy has a funny of showing it.”

“I had a blast,” Mike replied. “Now you get out there and knock ’em dead for the rest of those dates.” He leaned in and kissed Micky tenderly.

Micky made a soft sound and kissed Mike back, deepening the kiss just enough to taste him one more time. They embraced again and then Mike was opening the door.

“I love you,” Micky murmured, touching Mike’s face as he left.

“Love you, too, Mick.”

Mike closed the door, turned to look at the rumpled, empty bed, and allowed himself a sad sigh. He closed his eyes a moment, then straightened his back and headed off for his own shower. Right. Playtime was over. Back to life. Back to work.

* * *

Micky gratefully climbed into the Town Car waiting for him out front. The driver greeted him good morning and then did not engage him further. Micky slid on his dark sunglasses and closed his eyes before touching the brim of his new hat and tugging it down a little more to hide his face. He felt sad and tired, but strangely elated. He smiled even as his eyes welled up a little.

* * *

Later that day, Micky was resting in his suite at the Hilton, skimming the surface of dreams in an attempt to nap and recharge for the show that night when he was startled by a knock at the door. He considered just yelling at whoever it was to simply fuck off, but decided against it in case it was a hapless hotel employee and then he would look like a complete diva asshole. Groaning, he swung his long legs over the edge of the bed and stumbled to the door, squinting through the peephole to see Peter's face. Peter looked anxious and looked from side to side as he waited.

Micky opened the door noting how Peter immediately paved over his anxious look with a smile.

"Hi, Micky."

"Hey, Pete, what's up?" Micky stepped aside, implicitly inviting Peter inside. Peter moved into the room, hands shoved in his pockets. Micky closed the door.

Peter shrugged. "Not much ... just kind of rattling around in my room and wanted to see what you were up to."

"Jen's not here?"

Peter shook his head at mention of his girlfriend. "No, she's taking a day off after all the Greek hoopla. I don't blame her. I wish I could do the same, honestly."

“Don’t we all.” Micky cocked his head and peered at his friend. “You okay, man?”

Peter smiled crookedly. “Me? A recovering alcoholic in Sin City for an entire week? I’m terrific. I mean, what could _possibly_ go wrong, right?”

“Hey,” Micky said. “Pete, do you need to find a meeting? I can help you —”

Peter shook his head, cutting Micky off. “I’ve got a list of meetings a mile long — in every place we’re stopping. I’ll be going to one after the show tonight. I just — have something else on my mind.”

More or less satisfied that Peter didn’t seem to be in complete crisis mode, Micky returned to the bed and leaned up against the headboard. "Oh yeah? What's up?"

“Just noticed last night that you and Michael still seem to vibe together really well,” Peter commented. A little too casually. He was definitely fishing.

Micky smiled and gave a noncommittal shrug. “Well, sure. We’ve maintained a pretty good relationship over the years, despite the distance.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Then why don’t you just ask me what you want to know, Pete? You don’t need to do a song and dance about it.”

“Okay, then.” Peter sat on the edge of the bed and looked Micky square in the eye. “Are you two still fucking?”

Micky made a face. “Well, I guess I asked for direct. But, I mean, what business is it of yours, anyway? No offence, man.”

“It was my business once. When you two saw fit to include me in your little bedroom games. I was a fun toy you used to enjoy, if I recall.”

Micky’s first reaction was to get angry and defensive, but he made himself really look at Peter and see the sadness in his face. And simmering resentment. This really wasn’t about Micky and Mike at all. Not really.

“Mike and I have a … special connection, Peter. It’s something I can’t explain, but it started that first summer when we toured. Things got a little crazy and you got pulled into it. I don’t regret it, myself, but things did get out of hand with me and Mike. And you know we had to cool it. All of it. It never really died off, though. But no, we haven’t been ‘fucking’ all this time. Did we get together last night? Yeah, we did. And it was amazing. And it was the first time since the seventies. And that’s it. Who knows if or when it will happen again. That’s how it’s always been and how it has to be. And, come on, don’t be a revisionist — you were right in the middle of your great Free Love experiment. You told me you gave and received so much love —”

“You used me,” Peter finally interrupted, his voice breaking, eyes welling up. “You used me … like everyone else used me. I did have so much love … but when the money was gone, the love was gone. Everyone disappeared. I had nothing.”

“Peter …” Micky whispered.

“I know!” Peter snapped, as if anticipating Micky’s reaction. As if he’d rehearsed this confrontation in his mind a thousand times before and Micky felt at a distinct disadvantage. Peter had the script memorized and Micky was left improvising. “I know. I know I fucked up, too. I was irresponsible. Naive. Insecure. I really did end up being the dummy in the end. Believe me … I had a lot of time to think about that after Reine split and I was sleeping on the floor of a rooming house with my baby girl. Lots of time when I was _doing time_. When I was twenty bucks away from becoming homeless. Wondering where everyone went. Where were you, Micky?”

“Where were _you_?” Micky countered. “Huh? Pete, you dropped off the map for _years_. We all went off the fucking rails in the seventies, man. It was a shitty time. None of us knew how to cope with the reality that we were industry poison and no one wanted to touch any of us with a ten-foot pole once we were on our own. But I had someone taking care of business for me, thank god. Did you know that Mike lost it all, too? Years before he got his inheritance. He turned up on my doorstep in seventy-two — and he had nothing. Nowhere to go. Half-starved because he was too depressed and strung out to remember to eat. He lived with me for a month to try to get his head back together. Where _were_ you? Why didn’t you call? I’m a Hollywood rat, a lifer. You could’ve found me, easy. A fucking rooming house — Jesus Christ, Peter. I would have taken you and your little girl in, no questions asked. I would have taken care of you both. At least I would have tried. What is it with everyone in this so-called band having the thickest fucking skulls in the world?”

Tears dripped down Peter’s face now. “I was ashamed. And angry. I was the first to leave the band — I thought if I could just make the music, everything would be okay. And I thought there was an audience for me. And I was dead wrong. And I couldn’t bear to go crawling back. Even as a friend. I didn’t want you to see how badly I failed.”

“Peter …” Micky murmured. And he shifted over and pulled the older man into a tight hug.

This undid Peter further and he wept quietly, clinging to Micky. “I still don’t understand how one moment you can’t even go outside because everyone wants a piece of you … and then the next moment no one wants to know you. How does that happen, Micky? It was so fast, my head spun. And now we’re trying this again … and I’m scared.”

Micky stroked his hair as Peter, trembling, rested his head on Micky’s shoulder. It was darker now, but still soft and silky and beautiful. Micky couldn’t help but feel like this conversation should have happened so much sooner. Hell, Peter had come to visit him in England earlier in the year … but that was when he and David were trying to sell Micky on the reunion. He probably didn’t want to rock the boat. He’d downplayed nearly everything until this very moment.

“I don’t know, Pete. I wish I did. It happened to me, too. Happened to all of us. I’m so sorry, man,” Micky murmured, rubbing Peter’s back now, hoping to comfort him. “For all you went through. I was a mess for a few years, too. Fortunately by the time Mike came looking for me, I was doing a little better. But I would have helped you if I could. Davy and I tried to find you when we were putting the Boyce and Hart act together. We wanted you with us. We really did. We tried. But no one knew where you were.”

“_I _didn’t know where I was,” Peter whispered. “I was lost, Micky. Really lost.”

“I know, man. I know, but you came back. You’re with us now.” Micky pulled back a little to look at Peter, cradling his face in his hands and wiping tears away with his thumbs. “And we love you. I love you.”

“Do you really?” Peter asked thickly. “You really love me?”

“Of course I do, Pete.”

Peter leaned forward and pressed his lips against Micky’s. Soft, but insistent and tasting of salty tears. Peter pulled back and Micky blinked. “Oh, Pete, wow … I …”

“Why not me?” Peter asked. “I always wondered that. After the tour, at the beginning of the second season when you and Mike … broke up, or whatever you want to call it. I told you that you could have me. And you didn’t want me then. And I guess you don’t want me now.”

“Now, hold on a sec here,” Micky said, finally getting a little defensive. “Peter, I feel like you’ve been five steps ahead of me in this conversation the whole time. Slow down. Let’s talk about this.” He reached out and took Peter’s hand and squeezed it, holding on to it. Feeling it tremble in his own. He was frustrated, but also felt the need to just hold and protect Peter. He seemed fragile these days. The downside of the reunion hype was the unearthing of old memories and old pain.

Peter nodded, holding Micky’s hand back in return, seeming somewhat soothed by the gesture.

“Peter, you were on your own cosmic trip back then. You were so far beyond me, man. I’d never even tried grass before I met you. I liked hanging out at your house and seeing the goings-on, but I was ultimately too square for that whole heavy scene. I was kind of a hippie tourist. I cherry-picked the parts that I liked: the clothes, the music, the drugs, the naked girls, the swinging. It was a big party to me. But you were the real deal and I always admired you for being so committed to your ideals and politics and the lifestyle.”

“Yeah. I was a sucker,” Peter muttered.

“No, you weren’t. Not really,” Micky insisted. “There were some bad people in your midst. We all had our leeches, but yours were really awful. And there were _so many_ of them. Bleeding you. I think I tried to talk to you about it a few times, but —”

“I didn’t listen,” Peter admitted. “I wanted to think the best of everyone. And I also believed in karma and in the importance of the journey. Things unfolding as they were meant to. I was an idiot.”

“Stop,” Micky said. “Stop beating yourself up. You’re saying shitty things about my friend Peter Tork and it’s bumming me out, man. Because I love Peter Tork. And you should love him, too. He’s one of the kindest, most generous people I know. You took care of a lot of people. Some took advantage, but some … you really helped them, man. You had so much and you shared it with people who had nothing. That was really groovy.”

Peter gave a watery smile and then Micky leaned in and kissed him very softly, chastely, on the lips. Peter made a soft sound.

“I never would have been enough for you back then,” Micky said softly when he pulled away. “And I was all fucked up over getting in so deep with Mike. I would have bruised that beautiful, gentle heart of yours. You deserved more than that. You always deserved more than you got.”

“So, what about now?” Peter asked quietly. “What do you think I deserve now?”

Micky smiled sadly. “More than a forty-something balding guy with a wife and three children under the age of five.”

“Maybe that’s all I want for tonight,” Peter said. “I know you have another life, Micky. And so do I. And that life is on the road with us. I don’t want to complicate things for you. But we’re here together now.”

Micky smiled softly at Peter. It was honestly tempting. He’d always enjoyed sex with Peter, and it would be nice. But he knew better this time. And he’d just had a very intimate experience with Mike and hadn’t come even close to fully processing that. Jumping into bed with Peter just for the fun of it was … not a good idea. A selfish idea. A very stupid idea.

Peter was vulnerable. He was looking for comfort and safety, and sex seemed to be the only way he knew how to ask for it. Micky flashed back to the day Mike had turned up at his house. So broken and vulnerable and also asking for the same kind of comfort and safe haven. For years after, Micky had second-guessed himself about his decision to have sex with Mike in that state. Likewise, it had been the only thing he’d known how to offer Mike in that moment, with Mike pleading with him for it … but the way he fell apart and cried after … something about it had never sat well with Micky. But there was no changing that now. However, now he had another chance to make a better choice.

He held Peter’s hand in both of his. “I can’t, Big Peter. I think you know why. And I know us. Just once is never enough. And then I’m right back where I was in 1967, only this time I have a wife and three tiny girls who are my heart and my soul and they’re on the road with us. And you have your lady with you. We’re … man, I think we’re old enough to know a _little_ bit better now. I don’t think this is what you need from me. And I don’t want to hurt you. I want … I need you to stay well, okay? And I really need you to not get lost again. Will you do that for me? Don’t get lost. Don’t shut me out. Because I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Peter sniffed and wiped at his face, but nodded and managed a small smile, seeming to understand what Micky was saying to him. “I get it, Micky. And you’re probably right.”

“Not because I never wanted you. I loved fooling around with you. And you were so gorgeous and so sexy. You still are. And I do love you, Pete. But …”

“You’re in love with Mike.”

“I’m in love with Mike. In a way my wife would definitely not understand. Do you understand, though? Putting your personal feelings for him aside?”

Peter nodded. “And Mike’s in love with you. I saw it.”

“I need you to be my friend, Peter. That’s … what I would really dig from you during this tour. Be my friend. And I’ll be yours. Mike’s not here, but you are. We’ll look out for each other, okay? I promise.”

“What about Davy?”

“Davy, too. When he’s in the mood to make nice again.” Micky chuckled. “Maybe tonight. Maybe next week. Maybe by 1996?”

Peter managed a laugh this time. “Nineteen ninety-six. That doesn’t even sound like a real year. I can’t think about that right now. I’m still very much in a ‘one day at a time’ mode.”

Micky squeezed Peter’s hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it before standing. “C’mon, man. We have some time before we have to be back for sound check and all that shit. Let’s go do something together. Something that Vegas actually has lots of that isn’t booze or gambling.”

Peter stood slowly, wiping a few remaining tears away, and raising a querying eyebrow. “Prostitutes?”

“No, gutter-boy. Skee-ball!”

Peter laughed in disbelief. “Skee-ball,” he intoned.

“Oh, yeah, I love me some skee-ball. I’m really good. I’ll win you a cool prize. Y’know, with the tickets? Like … a squirt-gun or, oooh, what are the little blue guys that my girls love watching on TV so much … Smurfs! They’re a riot. I’ll win you a stuffed Smurf. I see them all the time at fairs.” Micky was on a riff now and Peter felt his mood lighten as he watched. It was like the years disappeared and Micky was literally climbing the walls on set or spinning stories and speculative theory. He was probably exhausted from … getting up to whatever he had gotten up to all night with Nez, but now here he was … thrilled by the notion of a carnival game. And cheering Peter up. Peter smiled. He did love Micky very much. When he wasn’t driving Peter crazy.

“And you know where there is skee-ball there’s usually … pinball.” Micky checked his pockets for his wallet and room key, then slipped an arm around Peter’s shoulders and steered him to the door.

“Now you’re talkin’.”

Micky opened the door for Peter. “You a pinball wizard?”

Peter made a “meh” waving motion with his hand. “More like a pinball sorceror’s apprentice.”

Micky’s laugh echoed down the corridor as the door shut behind the old friends going out looking for some fun. There are some things that can be depended upon on in this world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hat-tip to The Monkees Live Almanac for providing thorough detail for their tours, including dates and setlists. A great resource!


End file.
